She opened the door to find that someone had left clothes—­the same as yesterday, but fresh. Her boots had been cleaned of mud and dust. Either Rowan had left them, or someone ­else had noticed her filthy clothing. Gods—­she’d soiled herself in front of him.

She didn’t let herself wallow in the humiliation as she dressed and went to the kitchens, the halls dark in the moments before dawn. Already, Luca was prattling about the fighting knife a sentry had loaned him for his training, and on and on and on.

Apparently she had underestimated how horrific her face was, because Luca stopped his chattering midsentence to swear. Whirling, Emrys took one look at her and dropped his earthenware bowl before the hearth. “Great Mother and all her children.”

Celaena went to the heap of garlic cloves on the worktable and picked up a knife. “It looks worse than it feels.” A lie. Her head was still pounding from the cut on her brow, and her eye was deeply bruised beneath.

“I’ve got some salve in my room—” Luca started from where he was already washing dishes, but she gave him a long look.

She began peeling the cloves, her fingers instantly sticky. They ­were still staring, so she flatly said, “It’s none of your business.”

Emrys left his shattered bowl on the hearthstones and hobbled over, anger dancing in those bright, clever eyes. “It’s my business when you come into my kitchen.”

“I’ve been through worse,” she said.

Luca said, “What do you mean?” He eyed her mangled hands, her black eye, and the ring of scars around her neck, courtesy of Baba Yellowlegs. She silently invited him to do the calculations: a life in Adarlan with Fae blood, a life in Adarlan as a woman . . . His face paled.

After a long moment, Emrys said, “Leave it alone, Luca,” and stooped to pick up the fragments of the bowl.

Celaena went back to the garlic, Luca markedly quieter as he worked. Breakfast was made and sent upstairs in the same chaotic rush as yesterday, but a few more demi-­Fae noticed her today. She either ignored them or stared them down, marking their faces. Many had pointed ears, but most seemed human. Some wore civilian clothing—­tunics and simple gowns—­while the sentries wore light leather armor and heavy gray cloaks with an array of weapons (many the worse for wear). The warriors looked her way the most, men and women both, wariness and curiosity mingling.

She was busy wiping down a copper pot when someone let out a low, appreciative whistle in her direction. “Now that is one of the most glorious black eyes I’ve ever beheld.” A tall old man—­handsome despite being around Emrys’s age—­strode through the kitchen, empty platter in his hands.

“You leave her be, too, Malakai,” Emrys said from the hearth. His husband—­mate. The old man gave a dashing grin and set down the platter on the counter near Celaena.

“Rowan ­doesn’t pull punches, does he?” His gray hair was cropped short enough to reveal his pointed ears, but his face was ruggedly human. “And it looks like you don’t bother using a healing salve.” She held his gaze but gave no reply. Malakai’s grin faded. “My mate works too much as it is. You don’t add to that burden, understand?”

Emrys growled his name, but Celaena shrugged. “I don’t want to bother with any of you.”

Malakai caught the unspoken warning in her words—so don’t try to bother with me—­and gave her a curt nod. She heard, more than saw, him stride to Emrys and kiss him, then the rumble of some murmured, stern words, and then his steady footsteps as he walked out again.

“Even the demi-­Fae warrior males push overprotective to a ­whole new level,” Emrys said, the words laced with forced lightness.

“It’s in our blood,” Luca said, lifting his chin. “It is our duty, honor, and life’s mission to make sure our families are cared for. Especially our mates.”

“And it makes you a thorn in our side,” Emrys clucked. “Possessive, territorial beasts.” The old man strode to the sink, setting down the cool kettle for Celaena to wash. “My mate means well, lass. But you’re a stranger—­and from Adarlan. And you’re training with . . . someone none of us quite understand.”

Celaena dumped the kettle in the sink. “I don’t care,” she said. And meant it.

•

Training was horrible that day. Not just because Rowan asked if she was going to vomit or piss herself again, but also because for hours—hours—he made her sit amongst the temple ruins on the ridge, battered by the misty wind. He wanted her to shift—­that was his only command.

She demanded to know why he ­couldn’t teach her the magic without shifting, and he gave her the same answer again and again: no shift, no magic lessons. But after yesterday, nothing short of him taking his long dagger and cutting her ears into points would get her to change forms. She tried once—­when he stalked into the woods for some privacy. She tugged and yanked and pulled at what­ever lay deep inside her, but got nothing. No flash of light or searing pain.

So they sat on the mountainside, Celaena frozen to the bone. At least she didn’t lose control again, no matter what insults he threw her way, either aloud or through one of their silent, vicious conversations. She asked him why he ­wasn’t pursuing the creature that had been in the barrow-­wights’ field, and he merely said that he was looking into it, and the rest was none of her concern.

Thunderclouds clustered during the late afternoon. Rowan forced her to sit through the storm until her teeth ­were clattering in her skull and her blood was thick with ice, and then they finally made the trek to the fortress. He ditched her by the baths again, eyes glimmering with an unspoken promise that tomorrow would be worse.

When she finally emerged, there ­were dry clothes in her room, folded and placed with such care that she was starting to wonder whether she didn’t have some invisible servant shadowing her. There was no way in hell an immortal like Rowan would have bothered to do that for a human.

She debated staying in her rooms for the rest of the night, especially as rain lashed at her window, lightning illuminating the trees beyond. But her stomach gurgled. She was light-­headed again, and knew she’d been eating like an idiot. With her black eye, the best thing to do was eat—­even if it meant going to the kitchens.

She waited until she thought everyone had gone upstairs. There ­were always leftovers after breakfast—­there had to be some at dinner. Gods, she was bone-­tired. And ached even worse than she had this morning.